Blue light bleeds
from the block of stone
the cracked, chipped corners
the dull and awful hum
stratifies
behind your eyes.
We are wiped out 
by the mason
ripping form from functional
monoliths.
We are an echo
clapping back disjointed
splashing off the walls
of a too large room.
We are
too easily seen
obvious in our haste
to be heard
by the chisel
the hammer
the cracked, chipped corners
of a too large
empty room. 

Setting up the temple
so that the columns describe
the conceptual space
reserved
by your particular aesthetic,
describe the 
curves of you body
the golden glow
of your sunlight skin,
we are setting up the temple
so that it eats the dawn
so that gorged upon dreams
it showers the moon
with something safe
and intoxicating
and hungry.
Setting up the temple
means arranging the stones
against the curve of my neck,
means when I open my mouth
the planets rush in
singing your name
pounding like blood
in my ears,
means
the seal has been broken
forever. 

I dreamed we never met
frozen at the edge of autumn
like shadows cast
against a paper screen
and in pantomime
we divested ourselves
of these overplayed passions.
I woke without you again
and if not for summer
I'm not sure I could discern
one from the other.

I want to put a heart shape
where you were
press into this clay
something more permanent
than this longing
because it is a shallow pool
where the years stack up
and drown
and die
and I just want to feel whole
with this hole
at last.

Reflected in the pool
backlit and blue 
in the moonlight
your shade of isn't
is lounging
on a star 
over Seattle. 

My entire body groans
arcs infinitely towards you
empty armed and hungry.
I worship you without worry
beneath the reeds beside
the river.

I dream the hush of rain
cobwebbing your skin
and long to my bones
to see you
reflected in the pool
for me.

I am the center of the cycle
too close to look it
eye to eye
too distant to see
the edge.
Close enough to touch
but far enough
for that to feel improper --
I am autumn
rolling off of your skin
dry leaves
decomposing
in reverent
anticipation.   

They made oxygen from moon dust
somehow squeezed air from
earth that isn't even
and if I understood this alchemy
I'd make the mirror tell you
your own story
but in language that wasn't painful
and at a volume that
turned the air to dust
made simple impossible things
mundane.

The real magic
is making you see the spell
instead of giving speeches
about speaking it,
snuffing the candles
while stealing the breath,
removing the shackles
with some better binding.

We are stacked stones
nervously eying
the rising tide.
We watch the ghosts go
down into the drink
bruised blue and quiet
and never look back.
Cairns 
what were meant
for wayfinders
we are just
old bones
moldering regrets
and at last
silence
and parting.